What If?
by Lala Kate
Summary: An unplanned pregnancy turns into far more than Regina bargained for as past discrepancies force her to examine her life from an entirely new angle.
1. Chapter 1

_So this is basically OQ speculation wrapped up in drabble form. I do hope you all enjoy it! Obviously, I don't own Ouat or any of its characters, but I so enjoy having them over to play. :)_

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><p>"You do know that you're pregnant, Regina?"<p>

She stares hard back at Whale, scratching her arm's itchy response to this blasted hospital gown Snow somehow convinced her to put on against her better judgment. He's watching her too closely, she thinks, and she fights back the urge to incinerate the man on the spot.

"I do," she admits, her eyes dropping to her hands, noticing how they are tugging mindlessly on the course blanket lying on top of her lap. She stills them deliberately, composes her features and gazes back at him hard. "I assume that's why I fainted."

Whale purses his lips, rocking back and forth on his heels as his eyes narrow. He's enjoying this too much, she thinks—seeing her in a somewhat vulnerable position—even if he obviously fears what The Evil Queen having a biological child could mean.

"Yes," he nods, dramatizing the moment far more than necessary. "That and the fact that you're not eating enough and sleeping even less." He then raises a hand defensively as she opens her mouth to protest. "Henry told me. He's been worried about you, it would seem."

Henry. Henry has been worried. About her.

Her lungs deflate, her shoulders dropping as her head falls back on the hard pillow.

"I'm fine," she protests, one hand moving to her abdomen protectively, praying wordlessly that she is—that her child is—this child whose existence became known to her only days ago. This child conceived in a moment of unguarded passion with a man whose love both healed and shattered her heart. "I just can't seem to keep anything down these days."

Her stomach lurches as if on cue, and she grabs the glass of water on the table, taking a sip as she presses down the urge to vomit.

"You're healthy," he corrects. "And your baby seems to be healthy. But to say that you're _fine_ would be taking it too far under your current circumstances." He swallows, breathing out through his nose. "You're six weeks pregnant, and the baby's father…"

"My child's father is none of your concern," she cuts in, her mouth thinning into an impenetrable line.

"I think the entire population of Storybrooke will have no doubt who the baby's father is," he retorts, all too satisfied with himself. "And Leroy will be sure to inform those too stupid to figure it out for themselves. But the fact remains that you need to rest, Regina. Rest and eat. I'd like to keep you here overnight to make certain—"

"That's not necessary," she argues, sliding her legs off the side of the bed in an attempt to stand. "I can do both of those much better from home without you and your band of misfit toys hovering over me."

He sighs audibly, stepping directly into her path, making it nearly impossible for her to stand up gracefully.

"That may be so," Whale stated, his voice carrying more than a slight edge. "But there are some tests I'd like to run—"

"There is no way in hell that you are going to run any tests on me or my baby," she bites, her face now hot. "Now if you'll stand aside…"

"You've borne another child, Regina."

His statement stills her in her tracks, her lungs as devoid of air as surely as if she had been punched in the gut.

"What did you say?" she manages, her limbs feeling heavy and numb. "I've never had a baby—I've never even been pregnant before. God, for most of my adult life, I've believed that I was incapable of it."

The admission is still bitter, still carries weight even though her womb now cradles physical evidence to the contrary.

"Your body states otherwise," Whale interjects, and she knows he's not lying even as her mind cannot interpret fast enough to keep up. Her hands begin to shake, her chest hollowing until her breath feels cold, and she closes her eyes, trying to summon forth an image, a memory, even a fragment of something lost to her.

"This can't be," she whispers, more to herself than to him, her hands cupping the child now growing in her womb, half-terrified of probing into a past that has nearly crippled her on more than one occasion. "I would remember a baby—my baby."

But she of all people understands the power of a memory curse, and she suddenly feels very young, very frightened and terribly, terribly exposed. Doubt wraps around her with the vice of an unseen specter, its grip both suffocating and frigid.

"Oh, God," she breathes, staring into nothing, her mind reeling down one rabbit hole after another, chasing after figments moving far too fast for her to capture. She's going to be sick, there's no way to stop it now, and she clutches her hand to her mouth, breathing in and out through her nose, shutting her eyes to a world spinning out of control. _Robin_, her heart pounds, _Robin_, her mind echoes, and she shakes her head to silence the persistent chorus making her skin feel too tight for her own body.

A pan is placed on her lap, and she wretches into it, her eyes tearing helplessly in the process. A cool cloth is laid on her neck, and she takes it from him, not wanting his hands anywhere on her body, craving the touch and assurance of one now lost to her forever.

She reaches again for the water with trembling hands, sipping it slowly, rinsing the taste of bile from her mouth before taking another drink to calm her throat. Whale removes the pan from her hands and disposes of her vomit before leaving it by the door and returning to her bedside.

"This can't be," she repeats, not believing her own declaration as she wipes her cheeks. "It's not right."

"No," he states flatly. "Having your memories stolen from you is never right."

She feels the reproof in his words, her skin prickling in an automated denial that no longer protects her. She takes another sip of her water before her body forces her to recline back onto the thin mattress and sterile sheets.

"You may not remember it," he continues. "You may have no idea who fathered the baby or what happened to him, but this fact remains." Whale pauses, pressing his lips together once more before lowering his voice. "You have given birth before, Regina," he insists, and his words pulse into her nervous system, travelling through both marrow and bone straight to her core. "This is not your first pregnancy."


	2. A missing chapter

_I was prompted on tumblr to write a realistic drabble of Regina giving birth, my prompter reasoning that since I am a mother of two, I might be able to write about childbirth. So I took on the challenge, setting this drabble in the universe of What If?. My dear friend miscreant rose assures me I penned an accurate portrayal, and as she is a doula, I feel safe in posting this. Or as safe as I ever feel when I post something I write. (I was too terrified to share my writing at all a mere two years ago.)_

_That being said, I hope you enjoy it. And no-this tale is not a substitute for birth control. ;) I don't own Ouat in case you were wondering. There will be upcoming additions to this verse._

_And as always, your feedback means more than you know!_

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><p>Here it comes. Oh, God…she isn't ready…it's too soon, too close, too...<p>

A cry rips from her body as she grips an arm with inhuman strength, digging her nails in deep, biting her lip until she's certain she tastes blood.

"Shhh. It's alright. It has passed. Breathe, Regina. Just breathe."

She can't reply to him, her arms still shaking, her breathing shallow and heavy. She swallows—once, twice, trying to slack her thirst, then a goblet is pressed into her hand and she is propped on to a strong chest, warm palms caressing the matted hair back from her face that has escaped from her plait.

"Drink," he instructs, and she does so, too weary to argue, too spent to do anything by comply. Her throat absorbs the water, its cool texture soothing her in a manner nothing else can at the moment. She closes her eyes, her mind drifting from their cottage to the lake near her childhood home, the lake to which she would sneak away for secret swims, returning home with a sopping shift and wet hair, scrambling madly to right the damage before her mother got wind of her indiscretion.

Her mother. Gods, she can never find out about this, about him, about their child they've taken great pains to hide from a world all too keen to judge them for their choices. The thoughts of what will happen if Cora discovers them are too horrifying to entertain, and this is not the time...

A wave of nausea hits her then, and she leans over the side of the bed, vomiting into the basin positioned there for just that purpose. She heaves until the veins are bulging in her temples, until tears are streaming freely down her face, until she is limp and useless, a sweaty form propped up only by the strength of one who loves her more than she can comprehend.

"I can't do this much longer," she manages, her voice the texture of sand as she swallows down the taste of bile. He helps her drink again, his movements slow and deliberate, his hands steady in contrast to her own. Then arms wrap around her, a kiss is placed upon her temple, and she closes her eyes again, spinning into a semi-detached state for one blessed moment.

"Yes, you can," he assures her as tears continue to pool in the corners of her eyes. "You're my brave, strong girl. You can do anything you set your mind to do. I think we've proven that."

One of the women attending her stares at them hard, and Regina is certain she knows—that she realizes just who she is in spite of their location, despite all of the precautions they have taken. There's more than a hint of disapproval in her glance, and she feels him stiffen behind her, certain he has noticed it, too.

Then that doesn't matter anymore as a contraction rips through her womb, the strongest one yet, cramping in her groin and thigh muscles until her lower back knots itself into a ball of pain so intense she's certain she won't survive it. She pushes against it, crying out shamelessly, the need to drive it away the most overpowering instinct she has ever experienced.

"Not yet, miss," the midwife instructs, her voice firm yet gentle, her expression untroubled and sedate. "It's not time to push just yet. Breathe in deeply, feel the air pass through your lungs to your babe. Let it soothe you both until it's time for the little one to make an entrance."

She nods, trying her best to do as she's instructed, groaning as an aftershock ripples across her groin. The pressure is constant now, the pains coming closer and closer together, and she bites back a cry, too weak now to shift into a more comfortable position.

"How much longer?" he questions, his steady grip on her arm the only thing keeping her somewhat sane at the moment.

"It shouldn't be much longer," the older woman assures him. "Her body is nearly ready, and the babe is in a good position, it would seem."

Her back spasms then, excruciating bands wrapping around her abdomen and thighs from back to front, binding her in a vice that nearly blinds her as his name tears from her lips in a howl of agony. She tries to push it off, to yell it away, but it only intensifies until words are leaving her in an uncontrolled stream, curses and cries strung together in an impassioned plea to a higher power for this just to be over. Her legs are cramping, convulsive waves she never expected in the midst of labor, the pain at the juncture of her thighs nearly as intense as the ones slicing her abdomen and spine into.

"Do something," she commands, grabbing his arm, her tone edgy and bitter. "Anything to get this baby out of me."

She senses hands on her belly, feels her gown being pushed up higher over her bare thighs, and a part of her understands she is full exposed at this point, her legs wide open to everyone in the room. But she cannot care, not now, not when she would cut off her arm to get this hellish agony to just stop.

"Ah, yes," the midwife sighs, pushing just below her distended naval. "We're nearly there." Then a hand slides between her legs, moving inside of her, feeling something she cannot see over the small mountain of her stomach. "You'll be able to push soon, miss."

"Did you hear that?" he whispers, shifting her body for her, dropping one hand to rub her lower back as best as he can. "We're nearly there, Regina. Just hold on, love."

"Stop," she cries, slapping his hand away, unable to bear his touch there, her nerves fully exposed, her pain too acute. He seems somewhat taken aback, but only for a moment, and he returns his grip to her arms, rubbing and massaging, holding her close.

"Is this alright?" he questions, but she answers with an inhuman keening that pushes up from her toes. It speeds up her limbs with a blinding hot pain, burning blood and skin, and she wonders if she is dying, if her final moments on earth will be in giving life to this child conceived in reckless passion and a love she'd sell her soul to protect. Perhaps this is her punishment for defying her mother, to die giving birth, to never experience the happiness that has always been just out of her grasp.

She claws him in her agony, shaking her head as she raises up to a sitting position, pressed forward by the force of the child inside of her. Everything is a blur, a hazy fog of pain and confusion, and sheer terror grips her as the midwife shouts something she can't make out, her world narrowing into a gray tunnel of panic.

"Now, my lady," she hears, and she's not sure what to do, exactly, shaking her head, trying her best not to succumb to tunnel vision. "Now! Push. It's time."

It's time, it's time, but her strength has left her, her limbs no sturdier than a puddle, her eyes blurred and wet.

"I can't," she pants, sucking air into her lungs as a large hand moves to the top curve of her hard stomach. "I can't do this."

"You can," he assures her, gripping her hand. "I know you can. Hold on to me, love. I've got you. I've got you both."

She grinds her fingers into his, somehow finding a well of strength there, feeling it speed up her palm into her shoulders before it shoots straight to her womb, prompting her to push just as the next contraction hits. He cries out with her, leaning forward, supporting her back.

"That's my girl," he encourages as she slumps forward, spent beyond her limits. "You're doing splendidly, Regina. Our baby will be here soon."

"Soon," she echoes, her voice now no more than a cracked edge, and she licks parched lips as her head slumps backwards on to his shoulder.

"I see the head," the midwife adds, and she hears him gasp next to her ear. "Whenever you're ready, miss, give me another push."

The pain smacks her from behind this time, and her mouth gapes open, screaming in silence until her voice catches up. The pressure is so intense, she's certain her internal organs are being expelled from her body, but she hears an encouraging sound from one of the attendants as she attempts to catch her breath.

"That's it!" the midwife cries excitedly. "One more should do it. I've got a hold of the shoulders now."

The shoulders…her baby…their child. She tries to prepare herself for one last rally, breathes in as deeply as she can, screaming at the top of her lungs as lightening streaks down her spine to her belly and rips her from top to bottom. Her teeth are biting, she pushes until her legs shake, worn to the point of blackness before something pushes through, something warm and wet, ushering in a flood of relief that makes every muscle quiver at its expulsion from her body. She hears mingled voices chatting, instructions being shouted, then a slap and a cry, and something invades her from the inside out with an intensity that nearly sucks the breath from her lungs.

She's in love before she ever sees, before she feels, before she touches, and she leans on the man who gave her this child, waiting, straining, needed to see, weeping alongside the cries of her baby as small fists pound at the air just in front of her.

"You did it," he breathes, laughing—crying, or both just as she is, and he kisses her temple as limbs liquefy into his chest. She feels his tears mingle with her own on the planes of her skin, exhaustion now intertwining with relief and elation as tingles of wonder make their way up her body.

Then the baby is placed on her chest, now clean, but red and angry, waves of black hair tickling her skin as the child squirms and moves against her. She examines fingers, counts toes, strokes the silken texture of new skin, inhales the scent of life awakening, life that has come from her and the man who dares to love her with all he has.

"Robin," she whispers, his name now a prayer, a benediction on this child she cradles close. "How…how did we do this?"

He chuckles and kisses her cheek, and she smiles at her own question, her eyes never leaving tiny lids just daring to open for the first time. They're blue, she sees, deep and dark, the color of the sky at twilight, hovering between light and darkness.

"The only way to do it, as far as I know," he returns, securing his arm around her as the other caresses their squirming newborn. He leans forward and touches his lips to hers, one hand moving to cup the back of her head, and they rest their heads together, gazes fixed upon this tiny being who will change their lives forever.

"Your eyes," she breathes, watching as tiny fingers wrap around his one, her breath catching at the sight of it.

"They'll turn brown soon," he murmurs, kissing her cheek yet again. "I'm certain of it."

She shakes her head, wanting them to remain blue, to retain this feature from the man she cannot live without, the man for whom she left a palace and a crown, the man who will face certain death if they are ever discovered.

"I hope not," she whispers, breathing words of protection over her baby, this small miracle that now fills a heart once brimming with bitterness with the purest love it has ever known. Then a nuzzle, a reaching fist, and the baby leans into her chest, prompting her to gaze at the midwife for instruction as the older woman step forward and pulls the edge of Regina's gown down over her shoulder. Her breast is exposed, her nipple large and inviting, and the midwife helps her guide the infant's head towards it, the babe's mouth finding what he seeks instinctively.

"Our son," she mutters, kissing the boy's forehead as she helps puckered lips latch on to her breast, then sensation of life passing from her body to his too wonderful to fathom.

"Our son," he echoes, and she closes her eyes, absorbing these words of promise before a sleep nearly as deep as death overtakes her body.


End file.
